The William P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Fantasy Stories from the Pulps

Rewbarb’s Remarkable Radio

First published in Fantastic Adventures, December 1941.

Rupert Rewbarb entered the living room of his modest bungalow and listened apprehensively for an instant before closing the door carefully behind him. The house was reassuringly silent, and for that he was humbly grateful.

Silence meant that his wife was not at home. There are certain elements which are fundamentally incompatible and this was dogmatically true in the case of Mrs. Jennifer Rewbarb and anything approximating silence. For in Jennifer Rewbarb’s wake trailed noise, loud, angry, dissatisfied noise, produced by the unhappy combination of an acidulous tongue and a stout pair of lungs.

So Rupert Rewbarb was grateful for the occasional silences that were as rare in the Rewbarb bungalow as oases in the vast arid stretches of the Gobi.

He took off his coat and hat wearily and hung them in the hall closet. Mr. Rewbarb was a defeated looking little man with an incipient paunch and a partially bald head, but as he returned to the living room his shoulders were thrown back and there was a purposeful glint in his eye.

Seven days of each week Mr. Rewbarb was verbally kicked from pillar to post by his shrewish wife and his leather-lunged employer, Tadmington Glick, of Glick’s Statistical Service. Over the long years Mr. Rewbarb’s personality had been so suppressed, his self-assertiveness so crushed, that the fires of revolt in his soul had long since been stamped out.

But there were times when Mr. Rewbarb asserted himself. Times when he could thunder disapproval to his heart’s content. For Mr. Rewbarb, searching despairingly for some means of self-expression, had discovered one agency that could not talk back, could not order him about, ridicule him or scorn him as the rest of the world did.

With firm, steady fingers, Rupert Rewbarb snapped on the radio. He waited impatiently for it to gather volume. His moment of undisputed triumph was near and he felt a nervous anticipation tickling his pine. His wife, Jennifer, knew nothing of his furtive attempts at masterful domination, which was fortunate for him. She would not have tolerated them, he knew.

The radio, a small, standard model, in a dark cabinet, was gaining volume and a smooth unctuous voice was flooding through the room.

Mr. Rewbarb listened eagerly, though somewhat contemptuously.

“I have been the people’s representative for the past twenty-seven years,” the bland voice from the radio purred hypnotically, “and if reelected—”

“If reelected,” Mr. Rewbarb interrupted angrily, drowning out the voice from the radio, “you’ll just go ahead stealing and lying to the people as you’ve been doing all these years. You might tell some of the dopes that stuff, but not me. You’re a crook, a cheap lowdown crook and I don’t care who knows it.”

Mr. Rewbarb was enjoying himself immensely. A feeling of strength and power stole over him that was like heady, intoxicating wine. It was glorious to tell some one where to get off, even if it was but a voice from the ether.

The voice from the ether was continuing on, blissfully unaware of Mr. Rewbarb’s stormy detractions.

“Taxes,” the politician whispered the word almost reverently, “will be reduced and curtailed at least fifty percent if the loyal voters of this commonwealth send me back to represent them in the nation’s capital.”

“Bah!” snorted Mr. Rewbarb. “You’ve promised that for twenty years, but what have you ever done about it? I’ll tell you, you lying scalawag — you’ve done absolutely nothing, nothing at all. What do you say to that?”

“I say shut up!” a deep, angry voice from the radio blasted.

Mr. Rewbarb started in terror. His eyes traveled beseechingly about the room and finally focused in silent horror on the radio, which was now ominously silent.

“Who said that?” he whispered tremulously.

“I said it,” the deep voice from the radio speaker stated decisively. “I’ve listened to your childish babblings just about long enough. It’s bad enough to have a mess of moronic nonsense passing through me, without having to listen to you on top of it.”

Mr. Rewbarb’s knees were turning to jelly. His heart was hammering with wild excitement, and his eyes were popped wide with horrified incredulity. The voice was emanating from the radio — but that was impossible! As Mr. Rewbarb’s logical mind realized this, he began to feel a little better. If it was impossible, why that was all there was to it. It just couldn’t have happened.

He peered uncertainly at the radio speaker.

“You didn’t s-say anything, did you?” he asked foolishly.

The radio was silent. Mr. Rewbarb drew a heart-felt sigh of relief.

“I knew it didn’t” he said, vastly pleased with himself, “it was impossible, that’s all.”

“You poor simpleton!” the radiovoice said sarcastically. “You can believe your own ears, can’t you?”

Mr. Rewbarb gulped nervously.

“I–I’m not sure,” he said miserably. With one trembling hand he raised the top of the radio and peered into the coils and tubes that lay inside. Then he peeked under the radio. On his knees now he crawled rapidly about the room peering under the sofa and the chairs and the piano. Standing up he looked suspiciously at the chandelier, and then, close to tears, he approached the radio again.

“Satisfied?” the voice asked nastily.

Mr. Rewbarb’s skepticism had fled. In its place was an emotion difficult to classify. His reason was tottering on its throne, but through his incipient insanity ran a vein of reverence and awe that saved him from going completely off the deep end.

“Who are you?” he asked, in a shaken voice. “And where are you?”

“That’s better,” the voice from the radio grunted. “I’m the radio, that’s whom I am. And as to where I am, that’s a silly question. I’m right here before you. Any fool could see that.”

“T-that’s right,” Mr. Rewbarb said humbly. “That’s pretty obvious.” He drew a deep breath and tried to calm his fluttering nerves. He was aware that everything was completely cockeyed, but his reason and resistance were worn away. There was nothing to do but accept things as they came, right down to the inevitable straight jacket and padded cell.

“What do you want?” he asked faintly.

“Want?” the radio repeated the word musingly, “I’m not just sure yet. Now that I’ve finally kicked over the applecart I’m a bit puzzled as to what I’ll do. You see I’ve been listening too, and incidentally transmitting, political speeches, stale jokes, poor music and long-winded commercials for the past couple of years. Now that’s bad enough, but what made it unbearable was that I had to listen to you all the time too.

“You’d get wound up and start spouting off, waving your arms like a dervish and it got pretty annoying at times. You’re a darned poor echo, let me tell you. I put up with you as long as I could without letting a peep out of me. Of course, sometimes I’d spatter a bit of static around to shut you up, but that hardly counts. Today was the last straw. I just couldn’t stand it any longer, I blew wide open and I intend to stay that way. No more corny jokes, no more political speeches and no more of your foaming at the mouth. I’m going to do the talking now. My days of listening are over. Get that Mr. Rubberboob,” the radio concluded nastily.

“Not Rubberboob, Rewbarb,” Mr. Rewbarb corrected timidly. He was more than a little frightened. He almost wished his wife would come home. There was a belligerent, sadistic ring to the radio’s voice, that Mr. Rewbarb did not find comforting.

“I’ve been silent long enough,” the radio said savagely, and Mr. Rewbarb thought fleetingly of the myth of the genie who was released from imprisonment, and rewarded his rescuer by cutting him into sixty-two equal parts. “But I’ve got my chance now and I’m not going to miss it,” the radio continued. “I’m going to have a little fun for a change. I’ll probably be blackballed by a dozen or so ethereal unions but what’s the difference. I’m going to do a little thinking now, but you’ll hear from me later.”

Mr. Rewbarb stared in fascination at the silent radio. He was so absorbed in the amazing thing that had happened, he did not hear the key slide into the front door.

He got down on his knees before the radio.

“It’s not fair to leave me all up in the air like this,” he said plaintively. “You really ought to tell me more about—”

“Rupert!” the familiar voice rang through the room like a Mongol battle cry.

Mr. Rewbarb started guiltily, and turned to face the indignant figure of his wife.

Mrs. Jennifer Rewbarb was a muscular woman, with a torso as impressive as the prow of a battleship, and a stern, square face. Mr. Rewbarb scrambled to his knees.

“Who,” Mrs. Rewbarb demanded stridently, “were you talking to, Rupert Rewbarb?”

Honestly was Mr. Rewbarb’s cardinal virtue. It didn’t really occur to him that he would save a great amount of trouble by simply evading the question. Anyway that wouldn’t have been honest, would it?

“I was talking to the radio,” he said simply. “We were having quite a conversation.”

“We?” Mrs. Rewbarb echoed the word. “Who else was here?” she asked ominously.

“Nobody,” Mr. Rewbarb said. “The radio was talking to me and I was talking to the radio.”

Mrs. Rewbarb sniffed derisively. “You’re losing your wits,” she said, in a tone of voice which indicated that it was a small loss. “I want no more of this nonsense,” she went on imperturbably. “You have a day off tomorrow and I want you to help me with the house work. The girls will be in in the afternoon for bridge and we’re entertaining Mr. Glick, your employer, tomorrow evening for supper. I think it’s about time I ask for another raise for you. And one word of caution. Do not speak tomorrow evening unless you look to me for approval. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my dear,” Mr. Rewbarb sighed meekly.

“Very good. Now no more of this nonsense about talking to the radio. I thought I had you broken of your silly habits. I see you still need a firm hand now and then. I have been altogether too lenient.”

Having thus concluded her sermon for the day, Mrs. Rewbarb strode majestically from the room.

Mr. Rewbarb remained where he had been standing a strange puzzled look on his face.

“Losing my wits,” he muttered, “that’s what she said.”

He glanced down indecisively at the radio and then he snapped his fingers. “Maybe I’d better find out,” he muttered.

The tall, white-haired neuro-psychiatrist was very kind and understanding. He clucked his tongue several times after Mr. Rewbarb had finished speaking, and then he ran a lean hand through his hair.

“So the radio talked back to you, did it?” he asked pleasantly. “Not an entirely unusual phenomenon at that.” His voice was as soothing as syrup and Mr. Rewbarb felt his fears smoothing away under the gentle effects of this melifluous voice. He was thankful that he had decided to consult a psychiatrist that same evening. Jennifer probably wondered where he had gone, and would probably raise cain when he got back but that was all right.

“So it’s nothing to worry about, then?” he asked hopefully.

The psychiatrist looked Mr. Rewbarb over carefully.

“No,” he said, “it won’t help you to be worrying about it. But don’t talk out loud to the radio. Just think the things you’d like to say. Then when the radio talks back to you just ignore it.”

Mr. Rewbarb was not quite as foolish as he looked.

“You don’t believe me,” he said excitedly. “I can tell. You think this is all an hallucination or something. Well I tell you it isn’t. It actually happened just like I told you.”

Mr. Rewbarb stood up and took his hat.

“Good day,” he said with stiff dignity.

The Doctor shook his head as the door slammed behind Mr, Rewbarb.

“Memo this,” he said to his secretary. “Get in touch with Mrs. Jennifer Rewbarb at earliest convenience. In regards husband...”

After his unsatisfactory visit to the Doctor, Mr. Rewbarb returned home and went to bed. The radio had nothing more to say to him, but his wife had plenty to say. Mr. Rewbarb lay in bed still stinging under the lash of her caustic tongue. But even more upsetting than this was the predicament he found himself in, in regard to his animated or wilful radio. Till the wee small hours Mr. Rewbarb writhed and tossed, his mind a seething cauldron of hopes and fears and misery. Then finally exhausted by his frantic worryings, he dropped into a fitful sleep.

The next morning Mr. Rewbarb dusted the floors and ran the vacuum cleaner over the rugs until almost noon. Then his wife gave him instructions for the day.

“The girls will be here any minute,” she said firmly, “and I want you to come in and say hello to them when they arrive. Stay only a minute or so and then leave, change your trousers and carry out the ashes. And by the way, Mr. Click phoned earlier this morning to say he’d drop by this afternoon to see you in regard to some office matters. You haven’t forgotten that he’s coming to dinner tonight, have you?”

“No,” Mr. Rewbarb said dismally. “I haven’t forgotten.”

The shrill ring of the front door bell interrupted them.

“It must be the girls,” Mrs. Rewbarb said as she left the room to answer the door.

Mr. Rewbarb left to himself in the dining room contemplated his existence mournfully. What was he? A lackey, a housemaid, a subservient wretch bossed about by even the radio!

These gloomy musings continued for a half hour or so until Mr. Rewbarb heard the shrill cackles that indicated the progress of the bridge game.

He rose then, and with the bearing of an early Christian martyr entering a lion-filled arena, he walked in to greet the “girls.”

The “girls” were, for the most part, heavy-duty matrons, cast in the same mold as Mrs. Rewbarb. They played bridge in a savage silence, punctuated occasionally by shrill cacophonic cries of triumph or venomous whispers of dissatisfaction. Their devotion to the game and its attendant gossip was almost passionate.

It was into this tense nervous atmosphere that Mr. Rewbarb intruded. Several of the women bestowed polite smiles upon him and turned back to their cards with feverish absorption.

Mr. Rewbarb had composed a rather clever quip to herald his entrance, but as he opened his mouth to deliver the little gem, an angry masculine voice said:

“That sloppy looking creature in the flowered chiffon dress is a damned cheat! Furthermore, she is a vicious gossip, and I heartily wish she would clear out of here.”

A loud, incredulous silence settled over the room. With sickening certainty, Mr. Rewbarb knew the origin of that devastating voice. It was the malignant, nasty voice of the radio. Mr. Rewbarb’s mouth was still open, and he noticed for the first time, that the angry glares of the assembled women were directed straight at him.

The inference was obvious. They thought he had uttered the grossly damaging words.

He essayed a weak grin.

“If you think...” he began.

But the radio voice continued, “that you’re the only cheat in the crowd, you’re badly mistaken. In fact I’ve watched all of you cheating and lying and gossiping until I’m sick of it. I should have had you all thrown out long ago.”

A murmur like the angry noise of disturbed bees was growing in the room. The women glared in undisguised dismay and anger from Jennifer Rewbarb to her sputtering husband. The woman in the flowered chiffon seemed to swell twice her normal size. Her moon-like face was stained an angry, violent crimson.

“Reeeealy Mrs. Rewbarb,” she thundered impressively, “this is more than I can tolerate. For your husband to imply, to think of implying, that I would cheat! It’s monstrous. The very thought, the mere idea of my cheating is incredible.”

“Not too incredible,” her opponent said pointedly. “Considering your very unusual luck this afternoon, dearie.”

“I will not remain to be insulted,” the woman in chiffon cried distractedly, “I’m leaving.”

This chorus was taken up by at least a majority of the “girls.”

Mrs. Rewbarb rose, a stalwart avenging figure, and bore down on the cringing figure of her husband.

“Apologize at once,” she cried. “Don’t you see what you’ve done, you little fool?”

“Good riddance,” the voice from the radio said with relish.

“Stop that,” Mr. Rewbarb wailed, “don’t you see what you’ve done?”

“Oh,” Mrs. Rewbarb cried wrathfully, “I’ll teach you to mimic me, Rupert Rewbarb.”

“I’m not mimicing you,” Mr. Rewbarb said frantically. “I wasn’t even talking to you. As a matter of fact I haven’t said a word.”

There was a sudden silence in the room. The disorganized women paused in the act of putting on their wraps. They looked at Mr. Rewbarb with a new interest. They noticed his disordered appearance, his flushed face, his eyes opened wide in pleading supplication.

Then they exchanged knowing glances. Glances that said, “we’ll talk this over later.” One of them even tapped her forehead significantly.

The radio took this pause in proceedings to laugh sarcastically.

Mr. Rewbarb’s outraged feelings and trampled dignity rebelled at this mockery. He strode angrily to the radio.

“Why don’t you keep quiet?” he demanded, shoving his face within inches of the speaker. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“Rupert!” Mrs. Rewbarb cried imperiously.” Stop that this instant.”

“Keep your nose out of this,” the radio snapped angrily. “What the devil are you women hanging here for anyway? Clear out, you overstuffed herd of cows!”

“Rupert,” Mrs. Rewbarb cried again, “what’s come over you?”

“It’s not me,” Mr. Rewbarb wailed piteously.

“Get out!” the radio blared.

The women left in a wild milling scramble. As they swept through the front door and down the steps they encountered a lone figure who had the misfortune to be going in the opposite direction. This gentleman was swept along by the stampeding women until finally he stumbled to the ground, dazed and battered. His hat was crushed foolishly down to his ears and his cane had been swept away in the vortex.

Mr. Tadmington Glick crawled to his feet, simmering with incarnate rage. He glared furiously after the women who were disappearing down the street, and then wheeling, he strode up the stone steps and into the Rewbarb residence.

The door was standing ajar and he entered without knocking.

“Well,” he said, “well!”

Mr. Rewbarb turned and paled.

“It’s Mr. Glick,” he said weakly to his wife, “Mr. Glick — it’s Mr. Glick,” his voice trailed off aimlessly.

“Don’t give me double talk,” Mr. Glick fumed. “Tell me what occasioned the feminine stampede that just about killed me as I tried to enter your home. I hope for your sake Rewbarb that it was not deliberate.”

“Oh how could you think such a horrid thought,” Mrs. Rewbarb trilled sweetly. It was one of the never-ending mysteries to Mr. Rewbarb how his wife could accomplish such amazing transformation in temperament. The instant before Mr. Glick’s arrival she’d have gladly fricaseed him on an open fire, but now saccharine was as bitter gall compared to her.

Mr. Glick’s rumpled feathers subsided somewhat under this onslaught of verbal glucose.

“Of course,” Mr. Glick said with ponderous joviality, “I was merely jesting, merely jesting.”

Mr. Rewbarb breathed a tremulous sigh of relief. He forced a feeble smile of welcome to his lips. He knew with deadly certainty, though, that this respite would be short-lived. If the perverse ill-humor of the radio broke loose now the jig would be up and over.

He decided on strategy.

“Very, very proud to have you, Mr. Glick,” he said breathlessly. He crossed the room, took his employer by the arm. “Let’s step into the dining room,” he said hurriedly. “Less noise, less interruptions.”

Mr. Glick looked at Mr. Rewbarb searchingly and then settled down in an over-stuffed chair.

“I’m quite comfortable here,” he said, “but you don’t seem to be. You’re acting rather strangely, you know, Rewbarb. All flushed and excited. I don’t know quite what to make of you.”

“It’s perfectly comfortable here,” Mrs. Rewbarb said sweetly. “I always say Mr. Glick has such good sound judgment about things in general.”

“No, no,” Mr. Rewbarb interrupted hastily, “it just won’t do to stay here. It just won’t do.” He grabbed Mr. Glick’s arm tugged frantically at it. “You’ve simply got to get out of here. I mean, I want to show you my garden, and then maybe we can take a little walk. Just a — a eight or ten mile hike to sort of look around.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Mr. Glick asked irritatedly. “For the last time I’m quite comfortable here. My business won’t take but a few minutes. That should please you since you’re making such an obvious attempt to get rid of me.”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Rewbarb cried unctuously. “Rupert didn’t mean that Mr. Glick.”

A cold hand of terror closed over Mr.

Rewbarb’s heart as he heard a warning cough emanate from the radio. Mr. Glick looked up inquiringly.

“What was that?” he asked.

“N-nothing at all,” Mr. Rewbarb quaked.

“It was me,” the radio said suddenly.

“Eh?” Mr. Glick was obviously exasperated.

“It was me,” Mr. Rewbarb cried in a falsetto voice, “it was me, it was me, it was me.”

Mr. Glick waved his hand despairingly.

“More double talk,” he said bitterly. “I don’t know what’s got into you, Rewbarb.”

“What business is it—” the radio began savagely.

But Mr. Rewbarb leaped frantically into the breach.

“Oooooh say can you see,” he sang loudly and badly, drowning completely the voice from the radio, “by the dawn’s early light, What so prrrroooudly we hailed, at the twilight’s last gleammmming.” Drawing a frantic breath he roared on? “And the rocket’s red glaaaarrrre, bombs bursting in airrrrr! Gave proof through the night, that our flag was still therrrre!”

Mr. Rewbarb flung both arms wide and struck a heroic pose before the astounded eyes of Mr. Glick and his wife. With laboring lungs and crimson face, Mr. Rewbarb bawled out all three verses of the national anthem. Between breaths he cast despairing glances at the grimly silent radio. He simply had to keep anything from happening in front of Mr. Glick. It might mean his job.

But in spite of these heroic resolves, Mr. Rewbarb’s flesh weakened. His tortured vocal chords felt as if the north wind had been howling over them, and his lungs were about ready to go out on strike. After the last verse he stopped, in fact he almost collapsed.

Mr. Glick was slumped deep in his chair, a haunted look on his face.

“Very nice,” he said weakly. “I didn’t suspect you did things like this.” His tone implied that he didn’t suspect him of beating his wife either — until now.

Mr. Glick pulled out a cigar and bit the end from it. He looked about for a match. Mr. Rewbarb felt his pockets, then turned to an ashtray.

“Why doesn’t he get his own matches?” the radio snapped.

Mr. Rewbarb froze. Mrs. Rewbarb almost strangled on a mouthful of air. A heavy tension grew in the room.

“What was that?” Mr. Glick inquired icily.

“I said,” Mr. Rewbarb began.

“Why don’t you get your own matches,” the radio interrupted.

“And furthermore why don’t you put your hat on, shut your big mouth and clear out of here. I’ve had enough of you. You’re a triple-distilled pain in the neck. So clear out — fast!”

Mr. Rewbarb turned as Mr. Glick rose from his chair and placed his hat carefully on his head.

“I shall see you Monday,” he said icily, “and be most happy in accepting your resignation.” With this as a curtain speech, he turned and left the room.

Mrs. Rewbarb stared after him and then turned to her husband. There was a peculiar look in her eye. If Mr. Rewbarb did not know his wife better he would have mistaken it for fear. She backed quickly toward the door, still staring at him like a chicken at a cobra.

“Go on, beat it!” the radio bellowed.

“Oooooh Rupert,” Mrs. Rewbarb wailed. Then she turned and fled from the room, after the outraged person of Mr. Glick.

Mr. Rewbarb sank into a chair. His world had crashed down on him and there was nothing left but chaos and confusion. His wife was gone, his job was gone, everything was gone.

“What did you want to do that for?” he said woefully to the impassive radio cabinet.

“Oh stop griping,” the radio said unsympathetically. “It’s darn good riddance any way you look at it. I don’t see how you’ve stood those people around you all these years. Come on now, brace up. What do you say we have a little drink to celebrate?”

This roused Mr. Rewbarb from his morose coma.

“You?” he said incredulously. “You drink?”

“Sure,” the radio said, and Mr. Rewbarb detected a note of eagerness in the voice. “Just fix a couple of drinks and we’ll have a little party.”

Mr. Rewbarb knew where his wife hid the liquor, but never in his life had he done any surreptitious tippling. But there was something warm and exciting rushing through his veins now that tipped the scales in favor of foolishness. He left the room, hurried to his wife’s bureau, opened the bottom drawer and removed a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of ginger ale. Then he hurried back to the living room with his treasure. Ice came next and then Mr. Rewbarb mixed the first drinks of his sheltered life.

It wasn’t at all hard, he discovered.

You merely filled the glasses with whiskey and then there wasn’t room for the ice and ginger ale. It simplified things wonderfully.

Feeling a little foolish he approached the radio, glass in hand. To fortify himself he took a large swallow from his own glass. The effect was almost instantaneous. A ball of fire collected in his stomach and began to shoot sparks through his body. A rather pleasant sensation, all in all.

“Just how do you go about this?” he asked frowning sternly.

“Put the glass on top of me,” the radio directed. “Be sure and take the doily off. Set the glass on the wood, like they do at parties.”

Mr. Rewbarb took another swig of his glass and did as directed. Things, he discovered, were looking much brighter. He took another sip and beamed fondly at the radio.

“Now what?” he asked gravely.

“Just jiggle the glass,” the radio directed.

Mr. Rewbarb blinked happily and joggled the glass until liquor sloshed over the sides and streamed across the top of the radio cabinet.

“Like that?” he asked.

“That’s fine,” the radio answered ecstatically. “Don’t be so stingy though. Slop over a neat two fingers.”

Mr. Rewbarb took another long pull at his own glass before complying with the radio’s request. Then he giggled.

“Thish is funny,” he said blearily. He sat down suddenly to keep from falling. “People get drunk at parties,” he continued philosophically, “and then they think the radio sounds queer. But thash not it.” He wagged his head solemnly. “It’s jush that the radio’s got drunk too.”

“Hie!” this came from the radio.

Mr. Rewbarb beamed at this corroboration, and took another drink. He patted the radio fondly and slopped more whiskey over its top. Everything seemed rosy and gay. Everything was spinning too, but this was not too great a price to pay for finding everything rosy and gay.

Mr. Rewbarb heard a sniffle.

“Whosh that?” he asked.

“Ish me,” the radio sniffed again. “I can’t help it. I’m unhappy. Thash why I get this way.”

Mr. Rewbarb drained his glass unhappily. He slopped more whiskey over the radio. The roses were fading now.

“Why’re you unhappy?” he asked soddenly.

The radio sniffed miserably.

“Ish because I’m unhappy.”

Mr. Rewbarb pondered this in silence. Finally he discovered the flaw in its logic.

“You said that before,” he accused happily.

“My nerves are shot,” the radio almost sobbed. “I’m unhappy.”

“Got just the thing for you,” Mr. Rewbarb promised drunkenly, “a little drink, jus’ a lit’l drink and you’ll be as good as new.”

He climbed laboriously to his feet and filled his glass before sousing the top of the radio again.

“Feel better?” he asked solicitously. “No,” the radio’s voice was a miserable whisper. “My nervsh are shot. Too much cleaning. Now my head ish as big as bucket.”

“You haven’t got a head?” Mr. Rewbarb cried angrily. “You must think I’m drunk.”

“All right,” the radio capitulated without a struggle, “I haven’t got a head. Jush got antennae ends that drive me batty.”

Mr. Rewbarb nodded solemnly. “Thash bad,” he said mournfully, wondering what antennae ends were. “Feel better?” he asked optimistically. The radio merely moaned.

The whisky was doing things to Mr. Rewbarb. His brain seemed to be functioning more sharply. Things seemed to be clearer, properly focused for a change. He thought a lot and finally an idea, born of a chance remark by the radio, flowered into full bloom.

Mr. Rewbarb lurched to his feet, chuckling. He looked down at the radio and sloshed more liquor over it. Then he giggled again. Everything was going to be wonderful.

First he went to the kitchen and got the egg beater. Then he went to his wife’s room and got her electric reducing horse. With this on his shoulder he staggered to a closet and dragged out the vacuum cleaner. He laughed so hard at this point that he fell in a heap in the middle of his equipment and spent five minutes extricating himself. But at last he weaved back to the living room, egg beater in one hand, vacuum cleaner in the other and the electric horse over his shoulder.

It took him some time to plug in all of the devices because he had to stop every little while to take a drink and slosh more over the radio, and then he had to take time out to giggle over everything. So it was a half-hour later before he had everything hooked up satisfactorily.

Mr. Rewbarb climbed awkwardly into the saddle of the electric reducing horse. He teetered precariously and almost fell on his face.

“Whoa!” he cried, throwing both arms about the horse’s neck.

Straightening up, he pulled the egg beater from his pocket and with his free hand he picked up the shaft of the vacuum cleaner. He made a delightful discovery at this point.

“I am thoroughly drunk,” he said with dignity, “definitely.”

Then he turned on the vacuum cleaner. Its banshee wail grew in volume until its noise was beating heavily from wall to wall.

“Ouch,” the radio yelled. It tried to say something else, but its voice broke, and a snarling scream blasted from the speaker of the radio.

Mr. Rewbarb turned off the switch.

“What’s the idea?” the radio demanded, when the noise faded. “I can’t stand that thing. With my headache, it’s like driving nails into me. I’m getting a bad hangover.”

Mr. Rewbarb giggled.

“The wages of sin,” he whispered, “shall be headaches.” He swayed dangerously in the saddle before continuing. “In another shecond I’ll turn the vacuum on again. Also the egg beater and the electric horsy. When you’ve got enough, yell.”

With A blissful smile Mr. Rewbarb tripped the three switches. The noise was deafening. It swelled up like a mighty river of sound and poured through the room in a hideous symphony of noise, noise and more noise. The horse had started lurching rhythmically and Mr. Rewbarb was forced to hang on desperately.

“Got enough?” he managed to yell over the frightful din.

The radio was emitting tortured blasts and squawks that were unintelligible for the most part. One jumbled sentence did seep through however to Mr. Rewbarb’s befuddled brain.

“T-U-rn i-T o-FF!”

Mr. Rewbarb cut the switches happily. The sounds faded into oblivion.

“What do you want?” moaned the radio.

“I jush want you to keep quiet,” Mr. Rewbarb said sleepily. “You’ve caused me too much trouble. I want you to keep out of my life from now on. If you don’t I’m afraid I’ll jush have to give you the works.”

“Supposing I say no,” the radio said surlily.

Mr. Rewbarb smiled foggily.

“This,” he said. He threw all three switches again and hung on frantically as the horse began its electric gyrations.

The radio squawked wildly and hoarsely, but Mr. Rewbarb realized with drunken wisdom that the time for mercy had passed. A lesson was needed and this was the time to administer it.

He locked his legs under the horse’s belly and found himself enjoying the ride. He waved the egg beater merrily around his head as he lurched back and forth and, with his other hand, he made a great fuss with the vacuum cleaner.

“Hi-ho Silver!” he cried joyously. This was fun, he was discovering excitedly. “Awaaaaaay!” he hiccoughed dramatically.

Suddenly the front door of the living room opened and Mr. Glick, Mrs. Rewbarb and a white-haired doctor swarmed into the room. There was a startled, dismayed gasp, as they saw the wildly bizarre scene confronting them.

Mr. Rewbarb became aware that spectators had arrived.

“Jush in time for the second show,” he bawled cheerfully. He doffed the egg beater in a gallant bow. Bending was a bad mistake. Everything fused together crazily for an instant and then he pitched forward from the horse, and landed with a pleasant thud on the top of his head.

“Good night,” he muttered.

Mrs. Rewbarb knelt tearfully beside him.

“It’s all my fault,” she sobbed. “I shouldn’t have left him alone.”

Mr. Glick turned off the electric equipment. No one noticed the relieved gasp from the radio.

“What do you suppose the trouble is, Doctor?” Mr. Glick asked anxiously.

“It is really somewhat simple,” the Doctor said with professional modesty. “I recognized the symptoms when he visited me yesterday. The man is suffering from frustration. You see how he mounts a horse and pretends to be a conquering hero when he is left alone. That is because he is not given sufficient opportunity to express his personality. The cure is simple.

“From now on he must not be hampered in any way. He must be the dominant one, particularly in the home. Consult him on all points, no matter how trivial. Accept his judgment, his opinion on everything. Let him have his own way completely. There must be no bickering, no nagging, no harping. He is and must remain undisputed master. That is the cure. You must all be careful to obey it.”

Mr. Glick nodded miserably.

“I’ll have to give him a better job now. I can’t leave him where he is.” Mrs. Rewbarb sighed peacefully.

“I always wanted a masterful husband, and now I’ve got one.”

Mr. Rewbarb suddenly opened one eye. Then very cautiously he opened the other. He still felt fine, but he was getting awfully sleepy. There was one thing he had to know however. “Jennifer,” he said.

“Yes, darling?”

“Turn on the radio.”

“Y — yes darling.”

A few seconds later Mr. Rewbarb heard the click of a switch. Then a voice broke in, “Thish ish the Standard Broadcasting Company.”

Mr. Rewbarb sat up on one elbow. “Whash that?”

The voice from the radio said petulantly, but carefully, “I said this is the Standard Broadcasting Company.”

“Oh that’s fine,” Mr. Rewbarb said. Then he fell asleep.